


To have loved and lost

by starwalker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dark, Dark Harry, Depression, Descent into Madness, Heavy Angst, Loneliness, Love/Hate, M/M, Obsession, Rape/Non-con Elements, Triggers, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 09:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwalker/pseuds/starwalker
Summary: A depressed Harry Potter is struggling to make sense of life in a non-ending war as he slowly loses his grip on reality and descends into madness. Then a broken Draco Malfoy comes along.A story of what heroes can become, as inner darkness falls and blurs the lines of right and wrong.A story of what happens when we only have one version of events: our own.Rape. Non-con. Dark obsession. You have been warned.





	To have loved and lost

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please do check out the trigger warnings and if this is not your thing, or you cannot handle it, do not read this fic.  
> This is a dark story of what depression can do to an otherwise bright and happy mind. It is a bit of an exploration of my own struggle with depression, trying to make sense of the darkness within. It goes without saying that it is brought to terrible extremes here. I find writing therapeutic and I resisted posting this for a long time, but finally I thought it might be useful to others too.  
> The bottom line is, we may not recognise ourselves, as darkness falls and depression wraps its sticky tentacles around us. What we do and what we say can be twisted out of all shape and recognition, and then we only have one way of seeing things, and it's frightening. This is to everyone struggling with depression. The fight is real, every day.

“Oh yes, Draco, oh God”…

Muffled moans, frantic breathing, the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Then, silence.

A muttered “Lumos” illuminates a small room, almost bare, only containing a small bed on one side, a chest of drawers to the left, a small, beaten wooden table with two chairs. There are no windows; thus the cell-like quality. There are no belongings to be seen anywhere, as though it was disused.

Or not. The only belonging in the room lays sprawled on the bed, sheets tangled around long pale limbs. A young man, his skin almost translucent, seemingly glowing against the well-worn sheets. Silver-blond hair ruffled, falling over his face, too long by far. Pale lips with barely any color in them. And his eyes. Eyes of stormy grey and molten silver, turned to ash.

Draco Malfoy.

There is someone standing over the bed, looking anywhere but at the form on it, fishing for shirt and sweater in the pale light. Pants and socks and shoes do not need reclaiming; they have never been taken off, just pushed down in a frantic hurry.

Shirt pulled over his head, buttons askew, glasses being pushed hurriedly on his face, the figure seems to stop and hesitate for a second, almost as if to speak, but then seems to think better of it, turning around with an almost invisible shrug of his shoulders and throwing a word behind,

 

“Later.”

The door closes with a soft click, and the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock can be heard in the ringing silence.

The form on the bed never stirs.

 

* * *

 

Harry is tired. More like exhausted. He wonders aimlessly in the vast, slightly smelling of mildew kitchen at 12, Grimmauld Place, for quite some time before giving in to the force of habit. He sets the kettle to boil and leans heavily on the ancient table.

His hands are calloused, his brow weary; there are dark circles under his eyes, and wrinkles that did not graze his eyes nor mouth a mere year ago can be clearly seen.

The naivety of it all! They were so sure of themselves. They all thought the war will be over soon, and they can go back to rebuilding the world they once knew.

Four years on, the war is nowhere near done; even though Voldemort has gone, his forces had continued a sort of guerilla-war of terror on the wizarding and muggle worlds alike, and not a week went by without some horrible incident. What was once the order of the Phoenix still used Grimmauld Place as their HQ, but time had worn them all thin, and these days, few people seemed to frequent the old house. When not on a mission, Harry was spending an awful lot of time wondering the empty rooms, drinking staggering amounts of tea and – let’s admit it – firewhiskey, and wondering, ever wondering what would become of it all, what will be left when all was said and done.

That was before.

And then one day, he gets the firecall. Kingsley’s head appears from the flames, startling him on a late Tuesday night in November. The Malfoy heir has been captured in a fight. They need a safe place to keep him, until they decide whether he’d be good hostage material or a downright prisoner. Has Harry an extra room to spare? His house is unplottable, after all, and the last place they’d attack…

Through the fog of tiredness and anxiety, Harry agrees as is indeed expected of him, and anyway, he will do anything required of him to help the cause. And before he knows it, there is a knock on his front door, and two Aurors he does not recognize bring in a perfectly still Draco Malfoy, put under a full body-bind. Only his eyes are alert, and these are blank, as if he is not quite aware what is happening. A small part of Harry is detachedly grateful for that; he avoids looking people in the eye these days.

“Is he alright?”, are the first words that left Harry’s mouth. A lifelong habit of concern for others, now nothing more than that: a habit, devoid of real meaning or care.

The Aurors give him a peculiar sideways glance.

“It’s funny you should ask that, Mr. Potter. He was captured in battle, but he never even resisted, he seemed to be entirely unaware of his surroundings. A quick check-up revealed him to be in excellent health, so Kingsley thinks a regular room with a good locking charm would be quite sufficient. His wand was not on him when we got him”.

Harry nods his head, as indeed nothing surprises him anymore and nothing ever stirs him. Through death and torture and fire and pain, he has perfected some sort of vegetative state of being, doing everything that needs to be done, but offering nothing more and feeling nothing as things get done.

He motions them towards an unused small bedroom on the first floor, one he has not even bothered to clean up, but it seems alright. The Aurors bring their captive in and leave him in the middle of it; then, with a slight nod at Harry, they go their way. As they leave, the body bind seems to seize and Draco Malfoy promptly collapses on the floor, staring up at Harry with weary, unconcerned eyes. As if he’s not surprised to see him at all.

“Alright, Malfoy, house rules: you stay in here at all times; food will be brought to you, and there is a small en-suite to this room, door on the right. If you try anything, I reserve the right to curse you in any way I see fit. Is that understood?”

The blond head leans slightly, nodding, and Harry turns around and leaves the room, uttering a locking charm on his way out.

* * *

 

He walks as if in a dream; he is there, he does things, but he does not feel a thing. His face remains impassive, he chooses his words with care, as though he might use too many in one day, as though he has a limited supply that might be depleted if not rationed accordingly. Ron and Hermione are not there anymore; they left two years ago to protect their newborn daughter and he hasn’t seen nor heard of them since. It’s for their protection; he barely sees anyone he once called a friend. Everyone is wrapped up in their own concerns, in their own ways of ensuring the survival of their loved ones. Harry has no loved ones; he only lives to serve the cause. He has no desires and no wishes; just to be left alone.

Sometimes movement seems so hard, dragging his legs as though they’re made of lead; the tea kettle seems too heavy, and the sound of the kettle boiling seems too loud. He notices things these days he’s never noticed before: the rustle of the last leaves as they gently leave the branches and fall to the ground; the sound of the hollow wind through the disused rooms when he opens the windows; the brightness of the damp pavement under the street light, illuminated as if in an otherworldly light; the creaking of the old staircase in the wee hours of the night; the cracks in the wall in the bedroom he uses on the second floor. He takes great care to examine and absorb these sounds, smells, sights; they’re the only things that seem to be keeping him afloat.

* * *

He enters the room on the first floor the next morning, a tray of toast and cheese and tea in his hands, and stops short: Draco Malfoy is nowhere to be seen. Then he registers the sound of the shower in the next room, which promptly gets turned off, and then silence; the creaking of the door as it opens as if in slow motion. A pale foot steps forth, and then another, and he is face to face with Draco Malfoy, a small towel wrapped around his middle. He stops short, hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t seem surprised. Harry’s world turns upside down, sweeping him along.

With the same stark awareness with which he registers everything, every single little detail around him these days, he all at once becomes aware of the man before him and it steals his breath away. Draco Malfoy is standing calmly before him, breathing evenly, not moving a muscle. He has an air of resignation about him, as though he is used to being told what to do up to a point where it has become second nature – waiting for the person before him to tell him what to do. Harry shudders, as the resignation in the grey eyes he remembers so well fills him with equal parts astonishment and horror: there is nothing in there, nothing at all, not even a flicker of emotion, and if Harry thought he was devoid of emotion these days, he sees now that even his sharpened awareness of his surroundings is already too much, compared to the empty shell of a person looking calmly at him. And then he registers other things – the way Draco’s wet hair falls down in his eyes; the way tiny droplets of water trickle down his cheeks and his naked torso, before being absorbed into the towel; the way his lashes move, as his eyes blink, impossibly slow; the way pale, almost invisible lips part just a fraction to draw breath; the way the naked, glistening chest moves slowly to allow for even breathing. Harry almost chokes on his own breath; Draco is breathtaking, stunning, and Harry has had too much. He drops the tray clumsily onto the nearby table and all but bolts out of the room, muttering the locking charm and leaning on the door from the outside.

His aching erection presses into the rough material of his jeans, and Harry closes his eyes and lets his head hit the door with a bang, not caring how this comes across on the other side.

 

* * *

 

It’s been so long. It’s been so bloody long he cannot remember the last time. The last time he beheld a naked human body, the last time he touched living flesh with his fingertips, the last time he was touched in return. He has dreams sometimes, dreams of fierce, burning desire, dreams of being pressed into a warm, suffocating hug, dreams of being held and of holding an unidentified someone who makes his head spin. These dreams are never explicit, but each and every time, touch alone seems to be enough to get him off, as Harry wakes up to sticky sheets he dispels with barely a thought at all. He barely ever touches himself in the waking world anymore; even in the shower, he just washes methodically every day because it’s the right thing to do and leaves it to that. It seems too much effort somehow, and his blank mind lacks both the inclination and the stimulus. So he almost welcomes the dreams, although they leave him strangely discomfited in the few moments between dreaming and waking up, when it seems as though he needs only extend his hand and he will reach that obscure someone, he would touch that warm hand and feel it wrap around him, and he will feel a little less alone.

That night, as he lies in his bed, images flash in front of him, so vivid they seem to be real: Draco Malfoy shooting him nasty glances in Hogwarts halls; Draco Malfoy’s terrified gaze as his chest is being torn open by an unknown spell and blood trickles to the floor of a school bathroom; Draco Malfoy’s malicious eyes as he calls Hermione cruel names and watches her cringe; Draco Malfoy with his eyes wide with madness as they soar on a broom through a sea of roaring flames. But not this, never this – never this blank, unblinking stare, never this detached expression. It leaves him aching, and he catches himself thinking what it would take to see an emotion flicker there, any little emotion. Will it bring satisfaction? Or a thirst for more?

That night, Harry’s dream takes on a different quality, as Draco Malfoy stands before him, looking at him with those dejected eyes as he slowly takes off his clothes, never once breaking eye contact, and strangely enough, his naked skin underneath glistens with water drops dripping down. He stares at him as Harry reaches out, and places his palm flat out on his bare chest. He is warm, impossibly so, and then the next thing he knows, he’s enveloped in a hug, but it is so much more as they topple to the floor and Draco sucks at his throat and pushes their thighs together and moans stifled nothings in his ear…

“Harry!”

He wakes up with a start, and sure enough, the tangle of sheets in his lap is wet and warm and sticky, but unlike all the other times this has happened, the tension in his body is nowhere near dissipated. On the contrary, it seems to grip his throat, making his breathing labored, as it soars through his veins setting every nerve ending on edge. It’s been so long, so bloody long, and this fierce longing hits him like a physical blow to the head, almost knocking him down.

Harry lets his head fall back on the pillow, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. But sure enough, he can still feel Draco all over himself, his hot breath in his ear. And he cannot for the life of him tell if it has been coming a long time, or it is the mere reality that Draco Malfoy is the only other human presence he has felt in an age.

 

* * *

As days go by, it only gets worse. His previously slowed pace seems to have been sped up, twisted out of shape, and focused on a terrible burning pool of desire pooling in his stomach, sending fire to his veins and slowly driving him mad. He starts to visit the first floor bedroom only once a day, with a tray full of enough food to last for 24 hours, but it is no good. Every time, Draco regards him with those calm, impassive silver eyes, and doesn’t say a word. Regardless if he is dressed or just out of the shower or lying on the bed or sleeping or sitting in a chair, the very sight of him makes Harry’s blood boil and his head spin to the point where he has to grip his arms together to stop them from reaching out.

And what is worse, infinitely so, is that it seems to him that Draco is secretly aware of this, his internal struggle, and does everything he can to torture Harry further.

That’s right; the more Harry thinks about it, the more he convinces himself he is right; it is all a pose, a game of nerves, a plot to push him over the edge. Why else would cunning Draco Malfoy feign nonchalance if not to put him off his guard and wind him up, like he’s always had? Harry is appalled at himself that he hasn’t seen it all at once. Draco Malfoy never does anything lightly; he always has an ulterior motive, all the more so where Harry is concerned. Cunning. Malevolent. Infuriating. Time means nothing; he will do this for as long as it takes. He revels in Harry’s affliction; he secretly enjoys his misery and his slow descent into madness. It has always been that way between them. It cannot be any other way.

Day by day, it turns into a dark obsession, feeding off his loneliness and filling that empty shell he has become with meaning, only this meaning is a dreadful, twisted desire, the kind that nightmares are made of, the kind that live off on the fringes of one’s mind, the kind that bring devastation if let in. With every passing day he is more and more convinced of an ongoing scheme to drive him insane, to have his mind lose its already shaky grip on reality, all through a game of silence and dejection. It’s always been about him with Draco Malfoy. It cannot be any other way.

And one night, it is too much.

One night, Harry tosses and turns and burns and then, he gets out of bed, gets his wand and slams his glasses on his nose, and pads downstairs on bare feet. His head is spinning, as though he’s running a fever or has had too many drinks, except he’s completely sober and as healthy as can be. He stops at the door of the first floor bedroom, holding his breath, listening for any sound at all, but he hears none. He whispers the unlocking charm and enters the room, illuminated by a soft, almost invisible light he has charmed and left on at all times. And just like that, he sees Draco Malfoy lying in his bed, his eyes closed, his breathing even, and Harry is convinced it is just a scam, it’s all a scam, he’s feigning nonchalance to wind him up, he cannot be sleeping peacefully, and before he knows it he takes a step forward, and another, and he feels the bed pressed to his knees. He leans down, as his outstretched hand collides with a pale cheek and he trails a finger down, down, to the exposed skin of the neck. Draco’s eyes fly open at that moment, but he looks neither startled nor surprised, and this just confirms Harry’s suspicions: he’s been planning this, it’s what he has wanted all along. Nothing in Draco’s eyes moves to tell him otherwise, and neither speak a word.

As he grips Draco’s pajamas with shaking hands, he wonders how he’s managed to wait as long as he did; the liquid fire running through his veins is a river now, sweeping in its wake doubt, thought and consideration, as he attempts to slide the shirt through Draco’s head and, failing, rips the fabric with his hands, letting out a moan as he finally, finally, lets his hands touch warm skin, lets them slide over Draco’s naked torso in a rough caress, tugging at his boxers, taking a second to rip off his own bedclothes and lying flat on top of Draco, and feeling as though he has finally come home. He is enveloped in a feeling of warmth, of another human being, and he licks, sucks and mutters nonsense against the warm skin underneath him, claiming the unresponsive mouth and devouring it with long, bruising kisses. In his dream, hands come up to pull him close, to claw lines on his back to remind him that he dreams no more; here he cannot tell, and he doesn’t care. His aching erection presses into Draco’s thigh, weeping for attention, and he roughly positions him, spitting in his hand and rubbing it on as he lifts Draco’s thighs and enters him in one long, swift movement, chocking on his breath and almost falling down with the sheer shock of the feeling, oh the feeling of being sheathed, of being one with another human being. His breath quickens and so do his movements, his thrusts turning short and sharp, and his head falls back and he screams as his release flows through him and out, exploding, feeling his own hot cum surrounding him in Draco’s body.

The scream echoes in the quiet house almost as an accusation, then it dies away. Everything is quiet once more.

He regains his breathing, shakes his head. Looks down as he slips out of Draco, and suddenly feels very cold. Draco is looking up at him with those calm, absent eyes, and Harry feels his feet buckle and his head go light, and he gathers his scattered clothes and leaves the room, stumbling.

Draco hasn’t moved a muscle through it all.

 

* * *

It is the first time of many, as Harry slowly descends into an abyss of dark desire and a thousand reasons to justify it, and every day, he comes up with more. He goes to that room whenever he pleases now, sometimes multiple times a day, and he knows it’s what they both want. Even though Draco has not said a word. Even though he has never moved of his own accord, but he has been entirely compliant to everything Harry has done or wanted of him. But instead of feeling satisfaction, every new encounter fills Harry with dread, with even more fire burning him whole, and he wants this feeling gone, because isn’t this physical thing supposed to dissipate the loneliness, the confusion? So he wants more, and one night, he comes to Draco’s room with a knife, and he draws thin lines in those pale thighs and watches in fascination as they turn crimson and then overflow. He needs to get a reaction from Draco, he needs to know that he wants this too, but Draco never even stirs, as though his thighs do not belong to him. So Harry tries his arms, and then stops at his pale cheeks. Cheeks display bruises for the world to see, and the world does not need to see this. It’s for his viewing pleasure alone.

He sleeps better now. He never dreams anymore, and that’s alright, because he doesn’t need to. He has found a reality right here, in the waking world. A willing body that is warm, responsive, and never denies him. Harry is content.

 

* * *

One night, he wakes up, breathing hard, gets out of bed, barely makes it to the bathroom and promptly throws up into the toilet, and again, and again, until he’s making impotent gagging sounds and his stomach rolls, but there is nothing left. He rests his damp forehead against the cool porcelain. He gets up to his feet some time later, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. Black hair, messy from sleep, glasses askew, red eyes, runny nose from throwing up. He stares at his reflection. Something is different about him, but for the life of him he cannot say what it is.

Slight wrinkles around the mouth that were not there before; a shadow in his eyes, as they look back at him like hollow places where cruelty might be reflected. Harry stares. There is something he needs to remember. He stares and tries, as hard as he can. But he doesn’t know what that is.

 

* * *

Harry is bone tired, as he slowly walks the distance to his house after many hours out in the pouring, icy rain. Returning from a mission, he has only one thought in his mind: Draco. Whether Draco’s cuts have healed, and what sort of patterns they’d left on his thighs. His warmth and unresisting softness.

He opens the front door.

Something’s immediately not right. The house feels empty in a physical way, the way it felt before Draco was taken there, all these weeks ago. Then he sees it. A note on a piece of parchment, pinned to the wall opposite him. As he takes the parchment his hands shake, and it only ascertains what he has known all along: Draco is gone. Kingsley informs him that he has been taken someplace else, for it is unwise to let him stay in the same place too long. It might be putting Harry in danger. As always, Harry’s service to the Cause is highly appreciated.

Parchment falls from limp fingers as his legs slowly give in underneath him, and he slides into a heap in the middle of the entrance hall. His lifeline. The only connection between him and the waking, physical world. Gone. For good.

How long he remains there, he does not know. Then, he gets up. Goes to the kitchen. Does the only thing he knows how, the only proper thing in the world: sets the kettle boiling. Sips the tea scalding his mouth. Then smiles softly to himself.

Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.

**Author's Note:**

> The title as well as the last sentence is a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "In Memoriam: 27", 1850.


End file.
